


A Laugh in Darkness

by hellkitty



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Dark, Guro, M/M, Non Consensual, Sticky Sex, dark-bingo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-01
Updated: 2013-02-01
Packaged: 2017-11-27 17:57:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/664829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellkitty/pseuds/hellkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>heed warnings/tags. The pairing should give a clue. x_x</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Laugh in Darkness

The laugh haunted him, like some thrumming engine of malevolence. Even in the rare moments of silence, he could hear it, as though the sound was sentient, stalking him even in his recharge.

Not that he wanted to recharge, not that he ever felt safe enough.  He’d forgotten what safe felt like. He’d forgotten what control felt like. He’d forgotten everything, it seemed, except the long agony of his existence. He knew, even without Overlord reminding him, that there had been a time before, when he’d had safety. When he’d had strength and control.

When he’d had legs.

He remembered legs, being able to walk, being able to kick, fight Overlord off. That had been the ‘problem’, the syllables dripping with Overlord’s sardonic amusement, of course, that had led to their removal.  And as with everything, Overlord chose to make it a lesson in pain, lopping one slowly, over the course of cycles, with a reciprocating saw; tearing the other off with brute force, the laugh crackling over the screech and wrench of metal before it splintered. 

It hadn't stopped there, either, the stumps of his legs providing merely new orifices to be violated, by fingers, by spike, by whatever trash Overlord fancied at the moment, and Fortress Maximus was powerless to do anything but writhe and wrench in pain, shame a thing long lost to him. 

Pain and powerlessness: the two pole stars of his world, like elements taking over his very being, dark and thick and choking.

And the darkness hid nothing, of course: it could hide his ruined body, the visible horrors of his feeble stumps. It could hide the crusty smears of his body energon from his abraded valve lining, the dull silver splatters of transfluid, cool and sticky on his pelvic frame, but it couldn’t hide the smell or the taste or the pain.

He reeked, of fear and self-revulsion, as well as rancid transfluid and old oil.  Darkness didn’t hide that, nor the viscous thickness he could never entirely spit out of Overlord’s transfluid, the back of his throat bruised, the very mechanism of swallowing broken and faulty. 

And the pain. Oh, the symphony of pain he’d learned, a whole host of miseries: everything from little scrapes and the ache of actuators held too long in the same tension; to the steady throb of pain in his valve, the autorepair fighting a vain and losing battle against damage; to the scream-sharp agony of his broken system—crushed hands, torn legs, shattered jaw. It fogged his processors, lighting up his optics with alarms, scrolling restless and frantic updates over his HUD, swimming like slime through his sensornet, sludging his relays.   

He had ages, it seemed, to study these things, to become more intimately acquainted with his internal despair than even Overlord was becoming with his battered body. He’d lost track of time, utterly. And for a while it bothered him, until he realized that there would have been no comfort, no solace, in knowing just how long he had endured. It felt like forever: that was more than enough to know.

And on top of all these, stronger than mere sound, like a vibration that seemed to seep into every crevice of his being, was that laugh. Overlord’s laugh, that supercilious amusement, mingled with contempt, the sound of a mech who got pleasure not only in another’s shame, but in his power to drive the other to the point of wishing, begging for annihilation, end.

And Fortress Maximus had begged, the words slurring from his mauled mouth, everything from ornate courtesy to cursing demands to die, knowing he was giving Overlord that ultimate pleasure, the knowledge that Fortress Maximus had come so low as to grovel, had put his life in Overlord’s hands and begged for those hands to clap closed, snuffing the final flicker of flame.

The laugh was the worst, the resonance of power, that omnipresent reminder that all he was was only at Overlord’s whim. 

He heard it now, and even knowing he would survive, he would be denied the sweet final comfort of death, his body stiffened, broken circuitry sparking, crushed cables squeaking, as a dagger of light stabbed the darkness of the room he was kept in.

And then Overlord was there, his mouth curved in its lush bow of a smile, surveying Fortress Maximus, broken in every way, with smug satisfaction.


End file.
